


Nobody Forgets Their First Time

by TotallynotRemus



Series: Bad Things Happen Bingo [1]
Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Angst, Bad Things Happen Bingo, Character Study, Drug Use, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Underage Drinking, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, Not Beta Read, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-12
Updated: 2019-10-12
Packaged: 2020-12-09 14:14:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20996135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TotallynotRemus/pseuds/TotallynotRemus
Summary: There’s blood on his underwear and bruises on his skin and Klaus doesn’t remember how they ended up there.For the Bad Things Happen bingo - Bloodstained Clothes.





	Nobody Forgets Their First Time

**Author's Note:**

> My first entry for the Bad Things Happen Bingo, I got my card a while back but this year was tough for me and I'm still trying to come out of the writing hiatus I was kinda forced to be in. Baby steps though! Baby steps. Thanks to Sara for helping me and being such an awesome friend, I'd still be stuck without them! <3
> 
> This one was for the prompt _"Bloodstained Clothes."_
> 
> **CW:** deals with aftermath of sexual assault and implied use of a date rape drug, though it's only ever implied and vaguely referenced, and Klaus' canon drug abuse. Mentions of child abuse, thanks to Reggie. Some implied suicidal idealization and a few blink and you'll miss victim blaming thoughts. Klaus is... not in a good mental space. He's sixteen in this fic.

There’s blood on his underwear and bruises on his skin and Klaus doesn’t remember how they ended up there.

He doesn’t remember how or when he got home yesterday either, but ever since Klaus learned which clubs would let him in even without a fake id and which dealers didn’t give a single shit about selling some of the harder stuff to a sixteen years old, that’s become almost a normal occurrence in his life. Whatever. So what if he doesn't really know how most of his recent nights out ended nor what he's taken in any of them? That's fine. It's nothing to worry about, really.

It's still loads better than having to deal with the hoard of corpses forever haunting him since childhood and driving him crazy, and hey, Klaus always manages to get back home somehow, so why would it even matter anyway? All's well that ends well and all that crap. He's having fun!

Except.

Except there’s blood on his underwear and bruises on his skin and Klaus doesn’t remember how they ended up there.

There's blood on his underwear and bruises on his skin—  _ he’d been laughing as he danced with someone or another, floating and happy and oh so high on whatever was given to him, feeling on top of the world with a body against his and a drink on his hand as lights shone bright and pretty around them, until suddenly all the lights were gone and so was the music and he wasn’t having fun anymore, his legs too weak to stand, tongue heavy inside his mouth as he tried to force words out, to ask what was happening and for it to stop, please, he’s not feeling so well _ — and he  _ doesn’t _ remember how they ended up there.

It doesn’t feel real.

No matter how much he tries, Klaus can’t make any of it feel real, his mind stuck on the evidence in front of him as he stands numbly in the middle of the bathroom while the dead wails and wails all around him, and he’s not so sure whether he’s trying to remember what happened the night before or forget what little he can piece together entirely.

_ If  _ something happened at all.

Because that’s impossible. He would remember, right? If something did happen. It feels like something he should remember, like a big deal— too important to forget, to just not be sure. So maybe that means he’s wrong. Maybe he’s just overreacting and nothing happened and he didn’t… 

He didn’t… 

With a shudder, Klaus shakes his head trying to rid himself of that train of thought and pretends not to notice the pathetic sob he lets out.

He throws his clothes in the damper in a hurry to get them out of his sight, ignoring the way his entire body aches as he gets inside the bathtub— he refuses to call it pain, not after a decade and a half living under Sir Reginald’s care, pain is something every Hargreeves sibling is well used to and has learned to ignore— and lets out a hiss as he settles in. The water is already cold, he spent too much time trapped inside his own thoughts, but Klaus barely even notices. The bath offers him some comfort all the same.

_ Nothing happened,  _ Klaus tells himself as he soaks in, reaching for his morning joint with hands that can't seem to stop shaking. Silently begging it to work, to help. Silently begging himself to believe.  _ Nothing happened. _

And, even if something did happen, who's to say he wasn't into it?

The explanation leaves him feeling breathless and unsettled and  _ wrong,  _ but Klaus welcomes it all the same, just as he welcomes the looseness and hazy feeling of the pot as the cries of the ghosts that a second ago were background noise slowly turn into dead silence. He almost feels silly for not having thought of it before, but he’ll blame all the noise for not letting him think. It’d make sense, right? He’s had fun with people at clubs before, enjoying the freedom the night life offered him. He’d liked it then, loved it in fact, and always went back for more.

That’s not so bad, really. It’d make Klaus the most experienced one of his siblings— most of which have never even kissed anyone before, even less done  _ that—  _ even if his memory of it is blurry at best and practically non-existent at worst.

The first to pop his cherry! Oh, he could hang it over Diego’s head forever.

He ignores how the thought of his siblings finding out about it fills him with dread, and how he can’t even remember who it could’ve been. How there’s blood stained clothes hidden away in the damper that weren’t from training or a mission, and how he still can barely look down at his body without wanting to burst into tears. And, most of all, Klaus ignores the fact that he’s never done anything beyond a few kisses and gropes before, and now his body hurts in places he never once thought possible to hurt.

Klaus has always been good at pretending.

The water is peaceful as he lets his head slip under, relishing on the far away feeling being submerse allows him. He wonders, just for a moment or two or four, what would happen if he were to stay there. Would he drown, or would he give up again at the last second gasping for air? If he died, Klaus wonders not for the first time, would he turn into a ghost? He likes to imagine he wouldn’t, not when he knows what it’s like.

How long would it take before anyone even notices he’s gone? Would anyone grieve for him?

Would anyone care?

Klaus allows himself to play with the idea until he can feel his chest tighten and burn from the lack of oxygen and then he’s back up again, laughing hysterically the entire time until his laughter turns into coughs and his coughs turn into sobbing.

_ As if. _

“Klaus? It’s almost time for breakfast, dear,” his mother’s voice informs through the bathroom door, her cheerful tone abruptly breaking Klaus from his spiraling and he’s forced once more to remind himself that it’s fine,  _ he’s fine,  _ and nothing bad happened last night. “You wouldn’t want to miss it, it’s the most important meal of the day after all. Growing boys need to eat!”

Shit. Shit shit shit.

Can’t he have a small little breakdown in peace, or is that too much to ask these days? Jesus.

“Just a second, Mom,” Klaus answers hoping his voice doesn’t sound nearly as off to her as it does to him. He hurries to put out his joint while cursing under his breath, praying that she won’t come in to check on him. That she won’t see him like this. “I’ll be down in a jiff!”

Relief floods through him when the tell-tale clicks of her heels start to get distant, even as he can’t help but want her to come back, too. It’s better this way though, he knows. Klaus shudders at the thought of how his father would react if he learned about this, as Mom would no doubt tell him. Not that he holds it against her, he knows she has no choice but to do as Daddy Dearest tells her to. Learned it the hard way all these years ago, when he was still young and naive enough to believe she could help.

Still, it just… It would’ve been nice to get one of her hugs right now, is all.

But it’s not worth the consequences.

(Klaus can already hear it perfectly in his mind, with that same ever-present disappointment in Dad’s voice that never seems to go away whenever directed to him. “You’ve brought this on yourself, Number Four, with your weakness and shameful behavior.”)

(He wonders if Dad would bother to look up from his notes for once, even if just to scoff and glare at him. Somehow, he doubts it.)

(For once in his life, Klaus wouldn’t even be able to argue with him.)

So yeah, that’s— no. He can’t let them know. He can’t let anyone know. Klaus wouldn’t know what to do with himself if they did, already barely handling it as it is and only being held together by tape and sheer denial, ready to crumble at any wrong move.

_ Because there’s blood—  _

_ There’s blood—  _

Klaus reminds himself that he doesn’t care, as he finishes up putting on his uniform with practiced hands, swallowing a loose pill he finds in his pocket without being exactly sure what it is, just for precaution— he can scarcely get on with just weed these days, needing a little something extra to help. This time, the lie doesn’t even chafes. It feels familiar on his tongue.

He decides to not bother with his tie today, nor with his stupid jacket, since Father never shows his face on Saturdays anyway and he doesn’t need another reason to feel like he can hardly breathe. No reason to play picture perfect today. Instead he ruffles his still wet hair and when he finally dares to look at himself in the mirror, Klaus is surprised to find that he just looks like himself, like nothing’s changed. For some reason, that doesn’t help him feel any better. He refuses to think too hard as to why.

For the first time in his life, Klaus is left feeling grateful for the stuffy uniform they’re all forced to wear, for in the mirror there’s not a bruise in sight.

Breathing becomes a little easier.

When he finally gets to the table, his siblings have already began eating without him. Klaus wonders what they see as they all turn to him with watchful eyes— him being late again, clearly hungover with puffy eyes and smelling like pot. 

The mask slips in easier now with an audience. Someone scoffs— he doesn’t see who, doesn’t care to try and find out either— and their judgement only hurts for a second before Klaus dismisses it all with a smile and wave, taking their rolled eyes and sarcastic greetings in stride as he plops down in his seat and it takes everything in him not to wince and cry. Instead he tells himself that it’s fine, that he had fun last night.

Tells the others too, just to be sure. A too-big— too-forced— smile on his face as he jokes and jokes about partying all night, until each and every sibling finally tunes him out and he can turn to his breakfast in peace. 

He does his best to ignore the way his hands shake too much to hold a fork properly and the fact that he’s far too nauseous to eat, forcing himself to take a few bites anyway of the smiling pancake that seem to stare back at him mockingly. Each movement of his arms exposes the angry purple on his wrists, barely concealed by the sleeves of his uniform.

Nobody asks him about it.

Klaus tells himself he’s fine with that, too.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed it! Feel free to talk to me on tumblr @ my tua blog bentacles-hargreeves, or even @ my main remuslupinsmiled, where I'm up to talk about literally anything and am almost always online!
> 
> Thank you for reading and please don't forget to give kudos if you liked it and leave a comment telling me your thoughts, they feed the hungry author's soul! <3 And I'm sorry for all the angst.


End file.
